


The Morning After

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: cliche_bingo, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-27
Updated: 2009-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney wakes the morning after, feeling as though his body isn't entirely his own anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

Rodney wakes the morning after, feeling as though his body isn't entirely his own anymore. He mentally checks himself over for new aches and pains, listens for the insistent voice of Cadman (just in case that nightmare can happen twice), but he doesn't seem injured, just listless, lethargic, his limbs sluggish and his mind slow. Everything feels gray, as if his perceptions are slightly off, but he's getting older every minute, so perhaps such things are easily explained. With more effort than he wants to acknowledge he swings his legs out from under the covers, struggles upright, shuffles into the bathroom, and after a general sniff toward his armpit decides he can't be bothered with a shower.

It's early, but Atlantis is already humming with activity, a consequence of the dozens of new expedition members who've recently arrived from Earth. Rodney supposes their newness is why they keep staring at him – that or they heard the names he called Radek in Mandarin yesterday afternoon – but he glares at them to ensure they comprehend their position in the pecking order; he is vastly more important, and will never remember their names. Yawning, he shuffles past a group of Marines who are jogging in formation, and considers what he wants for breakfast in almost direct relation to their health of their bodies, the strength of their thighs. It's texture he's craving, he realizes dimly – something soft and mushy, like oatmeal, or Cream of Wheat, but saltier, packed with protein. Is it possible he wants reconstituted eggs?

By the time he reaches the dining hall his craving hasn't diminished – if anything it grows stronger at the sight of so many other people eating their fill. Yet nothing feels right – not cereal, not donuts – so he makes a beeline for the coffee station and fills two cups. It takes no mental effort to make his way over to the third table from the left that has an ocean-view; to sit down across from John just like he always does; to inhale the steam from his cup. He whimpers slightly, and John looks up from his toast.

"Did you just say braaaaaains?" John asks.

Rodney rolls his eyes, takes a satisfying pull from his delicious beverage, and only then deigns to reply. "Says the jackass who got me wasted," he grouses, drinking again while John smirks almost proudly. "God. Dear, sweet, blessed coffee," Rodney mumbles, his vision finally beginning to clear.

"You take anything for your head?" John asks, fishing a fistful of ibuprofen out of his pocket.

Rodney stretches out a hand in pleading, still drinking all the while. "Why are you carrying . . ."

"Not my first time dealing with you and a hangover," John says blithely. "Ronon's bringing eggs after his run."

And Rodney slumps in his seat, throws back the ibuprofen, finishes his first cup and reaches for the second. "I really find you all almost bearable," he murmurs happily.

"Yeah?" John takes a pull at his own brimming cup. "Tell that to Teyla when she comes for her winnings."

"Mmmm," Rodney nods, agreeing vacantly. "I have coffee."

John rolls his eyes and laughs despite himself. "Morning to you too, McKay," and he leans over and clinks their mugs.


End file.
